There was much to do in the aftermath of Hans Kippel’s death. The body had to be cleaned and laid out. A report on the circumstances of his death had to be given to the relevant authorities. In the wake of the riot, the city magistrates would be busy the next day but a murder was a more serious matter than assault or damage to property. Nicholas Bracewell was realistic. The chances of the killers being tracked down by official means was very slim indeed since the crime had been committed behind a shield. An outbreak of holiday anarchy had been provoked by guileful men. Nicholas recognised stage-management.
It took him a long time to calm Anne Hendrik down and to convince her that it was not her fault. Even if she had kept the boy locked up at home, he would still have been taken. Men who could set fire to a house could just as easily smash down its front door. He left her with Preben van Loew and set out on what was to be a long journey around the taverns of London. The riot was his starting place and it was not difficult to trace it back to the White Hart. Frightened witnesses from Eastcheap all the way down to Southwark had marked its searing trajectory. The inn was still very busy and the drink was still flowing freely. Nicholas was not surprised to learn how the apprentices were first aroused and he knew at once who had supplied the strong beer.
But he was not in search of unruly youths who had been turned into a marauding pack. His quarry was a man who might be anywhere in the teeming city on that raucous night. With strong legs and a full purse, Nicholas was determined to find him. The first soldiers were in the Antelope, carousing with whores and far too inebriated to give him anything more than the names of other taverns which they frequented. The book holder trailed around them all and bought his information bit by bit with drinks for already drunken men. It was like trying to piece together a jigsaw out of wisps of smoke. Discharged soldiers did not wish to talk about their soldiery. On a public holiday such as this, they simply wanted to submit themselves wholly to the pleasures of the city. Nicholas was therefore sent on what seemed like one long and circuitous tour of every inn, ale-house, stew, ordinary and gambling den within the city walls.
One man half-remembered Michael Delahaye, another had gone whoring with him, a third knew him better but was too sodden to recall any useful details. It was painstaking but each new fact took Nicholas one step closer to the person who could really help him. He got the name at the Royal Oak, the address of his lodgings from the Smithfield Arms then found the man himself after midnight in the taproom of the Falcon Inn. Though he was fatigued by a whole day of celebration, the reveller responded warmly to the offer of a pint of sack and a plate of anchovies and made room for Nicholas on his settle.
Geoffrey Mallard was a small, stooping and rather dishevelled individual with a habit of scratching at his ginger beard. He had been an army surgeon with the English expeditionary force to the Netherlands and his memory was not entirely addled by overindulgence.
‘Michael Delahaye? I knew him well.’
‘Tell me all you can, sir.’
‘Do you ask as a friend?
‘I pulled his dead body from the Thames.’
When Nicholas told his tale, the surgeon was sobered enough by the news to supply all manner of new details. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had not taken to soldiering at all. The glamour which had attracted him proved to be illusory and the muddy reality of service abroad was a trial to his free spirit. He writhed under the discipline and cursed the privations. There was worse friction.
‘He made an enemy of his captain,’ said Mallard.
‘Why?’
‘They loathed each other on sight, sir. Two worthy fellows in their own right who could never lie straight in the same bed together. They were warned and they were threatened but their enmity continued to the point where a gentleman must defend his honour.’
‘A duel?’
‘A bloody event it was,’ said Mallard. ‘Had they come to any surgeon but me, they would have been reported and hauled up for court martial. They were there to fight against our foes not against each other.’
‘You say it was bloody …’
‘Both of them were injured.’
‘Was there a wound that ran across the chest?’ He indicated the direction of the gash. ‘Like this, sir?’
‘There was indeed. I dressed that wound myself.’
‘Then was the body that of Michael Delahaye.’
‘How say you?’
‘He was dropped into the Thames from the Bridge.’
‘It could not have been Michael, sir.’
‘No?’
‘His wound was on his face,’ said Mallard. ‘The point of a rapier took the fellow’s eye out. He is condemned to wear a patch for the rest of his life.’
‘Who, then, was his opponent in the duel?’
‘The captain whose chest was sliced open.’
‘What was his name?’
‘James Renfrew.’
Chapter Eleven
Abel Strudwick sat against a wall in Bishopsgate Street and mused on the vagaries of human existence. When he had tried to be a performer upon the stage, he had been cowed by the haughty Jupiter, flayed by the furious Margery Firethorn and stung by the derision of the audience. It had made him abandon all ambition in that direction. Yet here he was, in the person of a beggar, sitting on the ground at the behest of Nicholas Bracewell and actually getting paid for it. The waterman grinned as he reflected on his promotion. What he was doing was acting of a kind and it was professional in nature. It certainly saved him from spending the day on the river with aching sinews. There were handicaps. He was rained on for an hour, spat upon now and again and — if the dog had not been smacked firmly away — there would have been another soaking for his tattered jerkin. Against all this he could see an unlooked for bonus. Because he sat with one leg tucked under him in a tortured posture, the occasional coin was tossed his way to confirm the success of his portrayal.
His job was to keep on eye on Stanford Place so that he could watch the comings and goings. A few visitors called but all had left by the time that Walter Stanford himself came out to make his way to the Royal Exchange. Strudwick caught a glimpse of Matilda Stanford in an upstairs room but that was all. Various tradesmen called to make deliveries but none stayed more than a few minutes. It was late afternoon before the waterman felt that he was able to earn his money. Out of the house came the man whom Nicholas had described to him so exactly. There was a furtive air about Simon Pendleton and his normal measured gait became an undignified scurry as he weaved his way through the back streets towards the Guildhall.
Strudwick dogged him every inch of the way and hid behind a post when the steward stopped and looked around to make sure that he was not seen. Pendleton then opened a door and stepped smartly into a house. It had nothing like the grandeur of the mansion he had left, but it was a sizeable dwelling that conveyed a degree of prosperity. The waterman made a mental note of the address and then shambled past the front of the house so that he could sneak a glance in through the latticed window. The picture he saw was very expressive.
Simon Pendleton was talking in an agitated manner to a tall, stately individual in dark attire. The steward was pointing back in the direction from which he came as if reporting some disturbing news. His companion reacted with some alarm and reached into a desk to take out a roll of parchment. His quill soon scratched out a letter. Strudwick moved away from the window but remained close to the house. When a man wearing the livery of the Lord Mayor’s Household came to the front door, the beggar trotted over to accost him.
‘Away, you wretch!’ said the man.
‘It is not money I want, sir, just a kind word.’